Classic Poem

They live 'neath the curtain
Of fir woods and heather,
And never take hurt in
The wildest of weather,
But best they love Autumn — she's brown as — themselves —
And they are the brownest of all the brown elves;
When loud sings the West Wind,
The bravest and best wind,
And puddles are shining in all the cart ruts,
They turn up the dead leaves,
The russet and red leaves,
Where squirrels have taught them to look out for nuts.

The hedge-cutters hear them
Where berries are glowing,
The scythe circles near them
At time of the mowing,
But most they love woodlands when Autumn winds pipe.
And all through the cover the beechnuts are ripe.
And great spiky chestnuts,
The biggest and best nuts
Blown down in the ditches, fair windfalls lie cast,
And no tree begrudges
The little Puk-Wudjies
A pocket of acorns, or handful of mast.

So should you be roaming,
When branches are sighing,
When up in the gloaming
The moon-wrack is flying,
And hear through the darkness, again and again,
What's neither the wind nor the spatter of rain —
A flurry, a flurry,
A scuffle, a scurry,
A bump like the rabbits that bump on the ground,
A patter, a bustle,
Of small things that rustle,
You'll know the Puk-Wudjies are somewhere around.